


build an army

by hellbeast



Series: broken string [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angelic Lore, Barely Canon Compliant, Character Death, Gen, Lore - Freeform, Other, addendum: 37 pages of directionless rambling headcanons, this is 37 pages of rambling headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-13 22:46:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1243372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellbeast/pseuds/hellbeast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He stands on the coast, watching the waves billow in and out, and waits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. we cannot build upon over what you are without (the sin to cross the five stone)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pressure begins to build in his trachea; it becomes harder to inhale, and the slide of oxygen over the flesh prickles.
> 
> He cannot recall commanding his human body to react in such a manner, and the involuntary contractions and trembling of his muscles make him uneasy. His throat tightens further, and for a moment, he thinks the Father will do away with him. His doubt has been heard, and now he is going to be smote; what else could it be?
> 
> In that moment – and he will always remember the feeling of resignation, desperation, anger – he welcomes it.
> 
> But Castiel does not die. His throat tightens, choking him, and his eyes sting and his body shakes.
> 
> Castiel cries.

_And then when there was nothing left to create, God stood before his angels and said unto them, **a being borne, star of My burning star, light of My Holy light, I give unto this planet, so that the righteous Sons of Adam may be led to salvation**_.

_And so it was. From those words, divinity and grace spoken, came forth the last of the Dominion. He was cast not into Heaven, but into the far reaches of the stars so that he could watch all of his Father’s creations until his time came to lead the glorious sons where they were meant to be led._

_Praise be to Castiel_

*

The Angels do not accept him. He is delegated to their ranks, despite the fact that he is Dominion. The Father tells him that many of his tasks can only be accomplished through association with the Angels and Archangels, as arrogant as they are.

He is different, and not like them. He has never spent time within the Host, and so he does not sing. He has rarely walked the streets of the Silver City, and so he does not understand its purpose, other than vanity. He has met with the Father often, and he knows what is expected of him, and so he does not constantly harp out praises and exaltations.

The Father tells them that he is the last Dominion, and they frown at him, and sneer at his tattered robes. They call him a blasphemer and a sinner, the next Morningstar. They call him a mistake and a failure and unnatural. He is built like a warrior seraph – full of grace, nearly bursting at the seams with offensive and defensive power alike - but has the calm and patient disposition of a guardian or cherub. 

He carries two swords, and a dagger, all ornamented as though he is an arcangelo, as they call themselves, or a Throne. They jeer, for they can sense no purpose from him, only power, and an angel without an aspect is merely fodder. He has four wings where others of his ‘rank’ – for they have placed him at the lowest rungs of Angel - have two; browned and speckled like the sleek wings of falcons, and the uppermost set arcs well above him.

He is not like his “brethren”, no.

But then again, the Father did not make him to function like his kin, so he is alright with that.

*

In the very beginning, he spends most of time either at his post, or with the Father. Through the very first century of humanity, he stays in the stars. Faced with the furthest stretches of dark matter, Castiel is awed. He could spend decades at a time doing nothing but watching humanity and life itself evolve – it is beyond fascinating. He thinks that he might be able to understand why it is the Father chose man over the angels, though he will never admit such to any of his brothers or sisters. When the Father beckons him at times, he tears himself away from such versatile magnificence and back into the narcissism that makes up the Silver City. There are few of his kith who will talk with him – the arcangelo Gabriel when he’d been there, Barachiel and Raziel when they can; He still remains in touch with the Principalities and the Virtue Temperance, a few of the warriors, and Camael – and so the time he spends there is always brief.

When he first leaves the Silver City, he acquires a human body; a vessel of his own creation. It is early yet within the history of man and earth – not yet 300 years since man came to be - and so he is able to mold the elements into features that nearly mirror his favourite aspects of his true self. Thick, red sand and fine mud into smooth dark skin, bones crafted from strong wood. Blood from molten lava, and seashells for nails and teeth. Organs from plants, nerves and veins from twined grass. He cuts a strong jaw like delicately blown glass, and grants the body a lithe stature.

The Holy Light that the Father blessed him with upon creation shines vividly through only two blue eyes, made from sea stone. His hair is wild and dark, made of stripped vines, down to the vessel’s shoulder blades. He remains sexless – nothing but smoothness and androgyny - and all the more imposing for it. He, even masquerading as a human, has the light feet of a feline, and the grace and majesty of a preying bird. He has crafted a vessel perfect to him, and with it he can do as the Father wished of him; he can lead great men to their final rest.

He stands on the coast, watching the waves billow in and out, and waits.

*

There is no dissent within the ranks of the Host. The Angels and Archangels do nothing to him.

And therein lay the problem.

Most are reluctant to entertain his presence, and those who do are stiff and unwelcoming. They draw their grace deeply into themselves, as far from his as they can get. It leaves him cold, overwhelmed with a sense of loneliness, abandonment. Others sneer down at him; flare their wings up in attempts to intimidate. However, if nothing else, Castiel is unflappable. But for all that, it does not stop him from feeling that phantom ache – silence, where brothers and sisters should be.

*

He is ecstatic when his services are first needed – a few of the tribal kings from the largest landmass on the planet Earth appear along the stretch of beach that the Father has granted to him. They arrive in groups and clusters, and he knows it is from treachery and warfare. And while it seems as though they are arriving together, he knows that it is because a reaper took them all at once, likely from a mass slaughter. He walks them down the stretch of beach one by one, each of them receiving that time alone with him, and the glory and sentimentality of reaching paradise. They speak a multitude of thick, sharp tongues, and he finds that understanding comes to him easily. They are young men – for they tell him that within their people, only the wisest of men who can speak to the gods live to old ages – and they are as proud of their deaths as they are of their lives. Later, he wonders if their lack of faith in the Father as the sole omniscient being should had offended him. He knows that there are other gods – Paganus, the angels have taken to calling them – but none of them are as all-encompassing as the Father. Their believers seem personable enough. His brothers would call his easy acceptance of such ‘heathens’ ‘blasphemy’, but he knows better.

At some point, many years later, two men appear at once. For a moment, Castiel flounders; this has never happened before. From what he can gather from the memories left upon their souls, neither’s story can be told without the other’s. They are the two key figures in an epic. It becomes known to him that in life they were bitter enemies from rival tribes – they’d found death in killing one another. But in death, they greet each other with hugs, kisses and kind words. They even turn to him, place kisses upon his cheeks, and trace invisible patterns along his brow, chest and arms. They exalt him as a messenger of the most powerful spirits, and place upon his skin sharp swirls and winding lines, shaped from their will and very souls. In those moments, he feels more akin to a brother of these men than he has ever felt with another angel. As soon as he walks them to the end of the coast, and they move on, he shoots high into the air, past the stratosphere, and laments.

How can man be so accepting, so full of love, where his bretheren are so _cold_ -?

*

Though there are many angels and archangels who briefly interact with him, Castiel is the only angel to ever _walk_ with the Christ child.

When he is to be born, Castiel walks down the beach, feeling in his vessel’s bones the glory that is to come. Between one footstep and the next, he is in Jerusalem, outside of a barn.

(Later, he learns that Gabriel had supposedly been the one to give the news to the Virgin woman Mary. He wonders which of his brothers it actually was, posing as the errant archangel.)

He appears inside the barn – the woman Mary and the man Joseph are sleeping, and he helps them along into a deeper rest. The Christ child is wide awake and staring at Castiel. Taking steps forward, Castiel allows a small smile to flit across his vessel’s features.

“Hello, Son of God. I am the Dominion Castiel. One day, we will walk together, before you go to meet the Father.”

The babe smiles up at him, toothlessly. His skin is not as dark as that of Castiel’s vessel, but is more the thick color of the earth and his eyes are a deep brown as well. He wriggles as best as a newly formed life can and makes excited squabbling noises. Castiel touches two fingers to the babe’s head, and moves them in the shape of the Enochian sigils for protection and Elder Futhark for ‘Son of God’.

“You will do great things, Child. I await the day when we meet again.”

*

To Castiel’s surprise, he finds himself visiting the planet Earth often, to meet with the Christ child. It is unexpected, because he is not a Guardian, nor a Comforter. But he knows that the Son of God will be one of the most important men to walk with him for a long while.

*

Only once does the Father call on Castiel when the Christ child walks the Earth. And although he has met with the Father before, the experience still humbles him, and awes him. To stand before something so Holy, to be entrusted with tasks that are an integral part of the Plan; his joy can hardly be contained.

 _My Child_ , the Father tells him, _will do Great Things. But for all he is able, he still remains naught but human. You will help him to become the things that legends are built of_.

Of course Castiel agrees, eager to serve the Father, but by the time the agreement passes his lips, He is already gone, and Castiel alone.

*

‘It is as fathers sometimes do,’ the young shaman - bitten by a venomous serpent in the night - tells him, as they walk down the shoreline, ‘and perhaps brothers as well.’

Castiel listens raptly.

‘He loves you, because you have done nothing to warrant other feelings. But it is not always known to fathers on how to get their point across. He wants you to learn, but he does not want to tell you what you are to learn.’

Castiel frowns; the Father is not usually so vague in his commands, to any of his angels.

‘You are unlike the others, in all the ways that truly matter. Now, you must learn what that means.’

*

“Hello Castiel,” Jesus of Nazareth enunciates, his tone polite and his smile kind. He has been improving in speech, Castiel notices, able to articulate so clearly at eleven years of age.

“Hello, Jesus Christ, Son of God,” Castiel returns, and The Son sighs with a fond exasperation, before taking Castiel’s fingers into his hand and dragging him towards the edge of Jerusalem proper.

“Why do you have to call me all of that?” Jesus mutters, but Castiel knows that he is being teased.

“It is who you are. The Son of The Father, living amongst the Sons of Adam.”

“He is your father as well, Castiel. And I don’t tag that to the end of your name, do I?”

Castiel dips his head, as though he is conceding, and Jesus of Nazareth lets a grin spread across his face before Castiel adds, “But you are the Favoured and Prodigal Son, thus the only one referred to as such.”

Jesus only shakes his head, and continues to pull Castiel along.

*

“Why do you think He did it?”

Castiel glances over – the Christ child is stretched out an arm’s width from him, looking out across Jerusalem and the desert around it. Tiny figures bustle back and forth, and from this vantage atop a dune, it is a stunning picture. Christ is older now, near fourteen summers. His hair has grown out, full dark curls down to his shoulder blades, and his voice catches and breaks occasionally.

“Did what?”

“Created Man. He already had Angels, right?”

For a long while, Castiel does not speak. Many of his brethren wondered the same. One in particular wondered to an unhealthy point, and then acted errantly because of it. Here, he must tread wisely.

“I believe…,” he stops, because that in itself is a lie. He does not believe anything, because he was not made to have beliefs.

“I am not aware of the reasoning behind the Father’s actions,” Castiel says firmly, staring hard into Jerusalem’s interior, “But I know that He does not do things frivolously. Perhaps He felt that Angels lack in a way that Man does not.”

Jesus’ mouth twists to the side, and his eyebrows pull low. He gives a thoughtful little hmm and turns his gaze to the cityscape that has so captured Castiel’s attention. A breeze drifts by lazily, stirring the sand around them. Jesus props himself up onto his elbows, and flashes Castiel a grin.

“Or perhaps He believed you could use the company?”

*

“Castiel,” Jesus says shakily, running a hand through his hair, “I do not believe this to be-“

 _Trust me_ , Castiel implores silently as he slides his hand into Jesus’ and steps forward, off of the boat. The waters calm in an instant. _Fear not, for I am with you_ , Castiel whispers. The few of the Son’s disciples – Apostles – that are aboard the boat watch raptly.

Jesus takes the leap of faith, thinking of nothing but his trust in Castiel, trust in his Father, who have never before steered him wrong-

And he walks on water.

*

It takes time, but Castiel realizes that "righteous" men are not always "good" men.

Some of those who find themselves upon his shores are those the Angels dismissed as sinners and blasphemers of the worst kind, the lowest of the low. But, Castiel thinks, maybe virtue is not all the Father has in mind when he says Righteous.

For all that they may have sinned, in the end, the righteous always do that which they are named for.

*

“You performed remarkably well,” Castiel says, placing a hand upon the Son’s shoulder, as he has seen so many humans do, and watching as the man ducks his head in embarrassment.

“I did not think that it would go so well,” Jesus remarks idly to him, allowing his feet to skim along the water of the lake. Behind him, and around him, people cry in exaltation and amazement as they feast on plentiful fish and bread.

*

More men, bloodied with sin, arrive as time continues on.

He still walks with Kings and Heroes and Saints, but every now and then, a man called Terrible or Horrible or Devil walks beside him as well; legends for deeds that have built countries up from nothing, and consequences that have torn kingdoms down into dust.

*

By this time, Jesus had performed many a miracle, and had been resolutely spreading the sacred word of his Father.

From time to time, Castiel would leave the shores of Acheron, and aide the Christ in his travels.

The Son now had his own following that grew steadily by the day.

And deep inside Castiel, something - pride? satisfaction? - stirred its head at the thought.

*

The day that Jesus Christ is to be crucified, Castiel rages.

 _He is your **son**!_ He yells into the emptiness of the Heavens, his voice echoing on and on. His bretheren have confined themselves to the Silver City to mourn for a death that has not yet come to pass. Watching them wail and hum had made Castiel sick, and he absconded to the Plain of Souls.

 _He is the **Saviour**! He is the **Favourite!**_ He says.

_How **could** you? _Castiel whispers, the words bringing his every sinful thought and doubt out from his grace and tossing them to the winds; _If you would allow Your Favourite to be killed so readily, how can the rest of us bear to live?_ He doesn’t say. _Was Lucifer so wrong in his criticism of Your ways?_ He doesn’t ask. _…How could you?_ He repeats, over and over.__

A pressure begins to build in his trachea; it becomes harder to inhale, and the slide of oxygen over the flesh prickles.

He cannot recall commanding his human body to react in such a manner, and the involuntary contractions and trembling of his muscles make him uneasy. His throat tightens further, and for a moment, he thinks the Father will do away with him. His doubt has been heard, and now he is going to be smote; what else could it be?

In that moment – and he will always remember the feeling of resignation, desperation, anger – he welcomes it.

But Castiel does not die. His throat tightens, choking him, and his eyes sting and his body shakes.

Castiel cries.

*

“You are forbidden from it, Castiel,” Zachariah’s tone is uncaring and merciless; he was not among those who mourned, that much is abundantly obvious. He continues to look over the plans for the completion of a newer galaxy. He pauses though, and then gives Castiel a hard look, “And for the sake of The Father, step out of that disgusting human vessel.”

Castiel’s heart – the heart of his vessel, which has become so in tune with him, that he rather thinks that it is his body, a mixture of Man and Angel – is pumping rapidly. He knows this biological reaction to be one of instinct; the arousal of his nervous systems. It does not bar him from his fear. He presses on, as though Zachariah’s second statement was never spoken.

“Brother-“

“Castiel,” Zachariah cuts him off with the snarl of a lion, “No. You have been forbidden by the Father Himself from interfering in the death of the Christ Child. He will die, as humans do, and you will do nothing to stop it.”

Here, Zachariah glares. Castiel says nothing.

“Am I clear?”  


“… Yes.”  


*  


Jesus Christ will die, but he will not remain as such.  


Castiel will make sure of it.  


*  


He is buried in a tomb, on the side of a rock face. A large boulder has been rolled into the mouth, to stop the stench of decaying flesh from attracting scavengers.  


 _Three days_ , he tells himself, before flapping his wings and jumping – watching events past and present flash forward and rewind backwards. He lands before Jesus where he had both seconds-days-weeks-months ago and seconds-days-weeks-months before stood.  


 _Three days_ , he tells the Christ child, makes Him parrot it back, makes Him announce it. And Jesus does, a little confused and amused. The Apostles watch, in varying degrees of apprehension and confusion. Castiel catches the eye of Judas – the _**black**_ eyes of Judas, how had it slipped his notice! - and can barely stop himself from burning that putrid, vile soul out from its husk.  


 _Three days_ , he tells himself over and over. Judas will receive his punishment from the Father. Castiel just has to wait.  


Three days.  


*  


Jesus Christ rises from his grave, as planned, in Three Days.  


It had only been a matter of making five consecutive, non-linear jumps. One to tell the Christ child seconds-days-weeks-months-years before, another to retrieve him after the fact, another to place himself far from Earth when the Resurrection occurs, one to imbue Jesus with the power to raise himself after death and another yet to seek Enlightenment upon his shores. There he lingers the longest; he laments and rages and cries and feels, begs the Father to guide him and to stop him from doubting. From Falling.  


After a length, when he can no more feel the presence of God than he can feel the presence of Lucifer or Gabriel or Michael, he leaves the shoreline and goes to retrieve Jesus Christ.  


*  


Moving the stone aside takes no more than a glance.  


And there, at the back of the cave, Jesus is awake – alive – and stretching the rigor mortis from his aching body.  


Castiel does not weep, but it is a near thing.  


*  


“I thought I saw you,” Jesus confides into the darkness.  


Castiel can feel his stare upon his back, as he is turned away, a few paces from the campfire, keeping watch. They are making their way back to Jerusalem proper – the three Mary’s had already bore witness to Jesus’ resurrection, and spread the word. They had prostrated themselves before him, lavished praised, and in a fit of discomfort and reluctance, he professed himself to be the archangel Michael. For that, he’d heard nothing from the Host, but then again, as far as they knew, he was still upon the barest edges of his shores, waiting for the Christ in death.  


“When I was dead, I at first only thought myself to be dreaming. There…. There was a beach.”  


Castiel says nothing, but his shoulders hunch, and his spine tenses. Another biological reaction that he does not quite understand, but he does not turn around. He does not think that he can face the Christ child, not like this.  


“I had thought that if anything, I would arrive in Heaven. That Father would be there to greet me, and that the angels would rejoice. But instead, there was this quiet little strip of beach. It was beautiful - with fine sand and the clearest blue waters. I began to walk. It felt like I was walking home, on a well-known path. I could not stop myself from weeping. In the distance, I saw a man with dark hair and bright eyes. I could not see his face, but I knew him to be a friend, and that no harm could come to me, not on this beach. He watched me walk, and for every twenty steps I took, he took three. I knew that even though it did not seem that way, he was crossing the greater distance. The area where we would have met up was right before a huge monolith, covered in moss and brushed by the tide with every incoming wave. There were no angels, no excited clamor, no God. Just the ocean and sand, and two friends walking towards each other…  


… It was the most vivid thing I’d ever experienced.”  


Still, Castiel does not speak. After a long moment of silence, filled only with the crackle of fire wearing away at wood, Jesus speaks again.  


“Castiel,” he whispers at the angel’s back, “Did... Did my Father plan for my resurrection?”  


In a whirl, Castiel is upon him, bringing two fingers to brush against his forehead. Castiel whispers furiously in Enochian, and bids that Jesus remembers not.  


*  


 **You Have Done A Very Strange Thing, Angel** , Death says to him.  


“I know,” Castiel speaks with his very human vocal chords, his voice breaking the easy silence Death had been maintaining. He had sought out Death himself, wanting to rectify his insolent act of stealing back the Son’s soul. He had come, not knowing what to expect, or if he would be allowed to live.  


 **Speak Truly** , Death commands, and then, **I Should Have You Killed. Your Soul Wrought From That False Body And Tucked Away For My Later Satisfaction**.  


 _I Know_ , Castiel whispers with his grace, and he lowers his eyes, hopes to be struck down quickly.  


 **But I Will Not. Instead, You Will Owe Me A Boon** , _that_ takes Castiel by surprise, and his eyes fly up to search Death’s face for any hint of motive or falsities. There are none. Death has little need for lies.

He wishes to ask what boon Castiel could possibly grant Death, when his powers have been so limited by the archangels and angels. But before he can, Death dips its head, says, **One Day, Angel. I Will Collect**.

And disappears.  


*  


When the Christ child does return to the heavens, Castiel goes with him.  


He is shaken and tired and he does not know what to do. For a while, he remains in the Silver City, bonding closely with some of his brothers he had nearly forgotten; Uriel, Anael, Temperance, Balthazar, Raguel, Barachiel, Raziel and Camael. He bonds even with Carousel and Ifrael, who he had not known prior to his leave. He studiously avoids Zachariah, and all of the archangels. There has still been no word on the matter of his claiming to be Michael, or raising Jesus after being expressly forbidden. Other times, he travels out to the third heaven to visit the Son of God. Jesus welcomes him with open arms, smiles and fond recollections.  


Jesus hugs him, and places kisses to his temples, and preens his feathers – on all four wings. He asks why Castiel has returned to Heaven, why he did not choose to remain on Earth, or on his shores. Castiel can’t seem to find the words to explain; how can he say that he now cares little for man? They are so fickle – condoning one second, and condemning the next. He thinks, in a secret little part of himself he hadn’t known was tucked away, that man is no more welcoming or forgiving than his brothers and sisters. That man is no better than angel. Or is it that angel is no better than man?  


*  


“One day you will be happy,” Raziel tells him and, after taking in Castiel’s expression, hastens to add, “Not that you are not happy now! But one day, you will be happy, and it will _mean_ something. Something grand.”  


Of all his brothers, Castiel thinks he might like to talk to Raziel the most. The angel of secrets is not nearly as closed-off as Castiel thought he would be. Rather, Raziel is almost foolishly open, and affectionate to boot. Sometimes, Castiel finds himself in awe of his brother, who has more knowledge than most of the Host combined – he knows the answer to all of the Father’s wonders, maybe even better than the Father himself.  


“It can be taxing, yes,” Raziel confides –confides! Raziel, who holds so much power in his knowledge, confiding in _him_ of all the angels to be found! – “But that is because not many things are set in stone. Only prophecy can hold something down, so many secrets become moot and just as many more are made at any given time.”  


They are sitting, vessel-less, on the outermost edges of the third heaven. Raziel is running his grace artfully over Castiel’s uppermost set of wings, smoothing down feathers, and gently plucking errant or damaged plumage. In turn, Castiel is stretching the muscles in Raziel’s eleventh and twelfth wings – his brother does not leave the Silver City often, and rarely has the opportunity to fly.  


“Humans are the most difficult, because the Father granted them free will.”  


“Free Will?”  


Raziel’s grace brightens at the question, heartened by Castiel’s interest.  


“Oh yes! They hold within them the ability to make individual choices.”  


“Choices? How do you mean?”  


Raziel’s fifth set of wings flutter in excitement, and then all forty of them shake and resettle. Castiel holds the boundaries of his being back from Raziel’s, and resettles himself as well.  


“Why do you serve the Father, Castiel?”  


Castiel flares with incomprehension. How could he not serve the Father? To serve, and worship and obey are the sole purposes for which he was created. True, his Aspect may be more specific, but what else are angels for, if not for the Father?  


“It is His will to be served, no?”  


“Exactly!” Raziel is practically aglow in his giddiness, and his voice is all but a pleased purr.  


“We, angels, serve the Father because He wills it. We have no choice but to obey because we have not been gifted with wills of our own. We have desires and needs, yes, but we cannot act on them because He has not seen reason yet to let us. He controls our decisions. Humans do not function in this manner. When they serve Him, they do it because they want to. It is something they find enjoyable to do, and thus they do it freely and with love.”  


He turns his multi-faceted gaze downwards, and Castiel follows his brother’s line of sight. Raziel is gazing upon a group of humans who are prostrating themselves upon the ground, offering sacrifices and prayers to their gods and to the Father.  


“They serve Him because they choose to love Him. It makes their Faith that much more beautiful, wouldn’t you agree?”  


Castiel does.  


*  


“It’s just to ease your fears,” is Raziel’s prelude. It does nothing to lessen any sort of fear or worry Castiel might have had, and instead he turns anxious eyes to his brother.  


“What? What is it?”  


Raziel sighs, a long drawn out thing, and then nudges Castiel sharply with a wing. Castiel can feel brief amusement warm him, and he shoves his own wings back playfully.  


“He knows,” Raziel says, and then nothing else.  


Castiel can feel cold terror wash over him, but he resolutely pushes it away. Because, surely, Raziel cannot mean-? But then, he had not thought his actions would go unnoticed. Unremarked, maybe. But unknown? Nigh impossible.  


“… Who knows what?” He tries. Raziel frowns, and nudges him again, harder this time.  


“Don’t play coy, brother. It does not suit you well. The Father knows. About raising the Christ child, about posturing as Michael. Even about the legacy you have left behind to grow and adapt with man.”  


It is the last detail that sets him into motion. He had told not a soul about that – had not planned to do it, had not even realized what he had done until he had done it. That Raziel and the Father know, that he cannot hide it, not anymore, scares him.  


“You must tell no one,” Castiel hisses furiously, and he grips Raziel as though that will make him see how desperately Castiel wishes for the matter to be closed.  


Slowly and with purpose, Raziel pries himself gently from Castiel’s frenzied grip. He takes Castiel’s fingers – still curled and hooked like the wicked claws of a preying animal – into his own, and guides them to Castiel’s lap.  


“Calm yourself, Castiel. I will tell no soul of what I know,” he smiles a small smile, and his wings brush at Castiel, “I am for keeping secrets, not sullying them.”  


Weakly, but surely, Castiel smiles back.  


*  


(He had merely been toying around, breathing life into things mindlessly, and then taking that life away, watching the effects of non-living on things that used to be. He had not meant to, had not even considered it a possibility at the time. He had shaped a babe from clay – retrospectively, he thinks it might have been because he had most enjoyed the Son of God’s company when he had been young. The babe has turned out looking remarkably like him, with bright blue eyes and dark hair.  


He had meant to uncreate it.  


The babe had just been so endearing, small and well-behaved and affectionate, and so like Jesus in his youth, that he could not bring himself to do it. But he could not just leave an unauthorized creation to its own devices, not if there was any chance of anyone finding out.  


He had fashioned the child – not Nephilim, for he had lain not with man nor woman, and thus he was not Grigori – a blanket, and then left it wrapped at the stoop of a hut in a nearby town. The woman there, Sinaah, was unable to bear children of her own, and had exalted the highest praised to the Father when she discovered Castiel’s golem before her. The indirect strength of the prayers and praises he had been privy to were enough to nearly knock him off course, and he can only imagine the intensity that was showered upon the Father for Castiel’s unintentional miracle.  


The last he had checked, she had named the golem Nova, for the intense explosions of stars in the distant night sky.)  


*  


“Oh,” Carousel says.  


Nothing else. He just stares at Castiel, as though waiting.  


“I apologize,” Castiel begins hastily. He knows that Carousel – that all seraphim – function on a completely different level than the lower leveled angels. And yet, he had requested such a irrelevant thing all the same. He had come to Carousel of all seraphim, because he knows Carousel in particular to be kind-hearted and amicable. Deferent, he could even say.  


“It’s a meaningless appeal, brother. Please, forget I even-” He rushes to continue.  


“I will do it.”  


There’s no inflection at all, and Castiel risks a glance to Carousel’s face. The seraph looks as spaced out as all other seraphs – from operating at a full capacity every second, creating and destroying and maintaining balances, whilst sparing little energy or focus for other intrapersonal interactions – but curious. A little intent, if Castiel dares hope.  


“You will?” He sounds pathetically needy, Balthazar would say.  


“The task that the Father has given you. You will have a great many sons of Adam to deal with. To lead to their afterlives. You would need to be on good terms with all sides, would you not?”  


Castiel nods dumbly, and manages to stammer, “Yes, it would help me quite a lot. I would be able to correctly divine how each son of Adam would need to be led down the paths.”  


Carousel nods, begins nodding before Castiel’s even half-way done speaking. He turns, and flares out his wings. All 500 of them. He’s no Gabriel, but in the archangel’s absence, he is easily the fastest being in the entire Host. He is also the delegate between the Host and the Paganus gods.  


“I will go and speak to Bacchus. He will speak to the Fates and Pluto. Then I will speak to Huginn and Munnin and they will find One-Eye, who will contact Lye-smith and thus Hel. The Shinigami, Crow, Raven and Anubis will be harder to contact, but I will endeavor to reach them.”  


Carousel cocks his head to the side abruptly, and his feathers flutter in anticipation of flight.  


“I will return shortly, brother.”  


And then he is gone.  


*  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this thing is so long and drawn out i don't even know where it was going
> 
> it's a bunch of my headcanons slammed together in one long epic and covers things like Dean's retrieval from Hell, some angelic origins and lore and a bit of BAMF!Cas


	2. take the rage away from us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are far, far too late.
> 
> (It is the first time, Castiel thinks much later – entire lifetimes later – that an angel has given their life for Dean Winchester, only to have the man fail where it counts most)

Castiel is not the best warrior. He is not particularly stronger than the rest of his brothers, but, as Balthazar notes, he is crafty. He can win a fight when he is outnumbered, because he is swift and deft with his blade, and he wastes no movements. Every action is thought out and necessary, every flick of the wrist and swing of his sword is a step in the intricate dance he performs, systematically tearing his enemies down.  


The demons have him cornered, and are grinning maliciously, ready to stain his grace with their ungodly and vile spite. Both of his blades have been misplaced in battle, and he can feel grace starting to bubble up as though he is going to burst. He only need hold out for a few seconds longer, just a few seconds-  


“Pretty pretty little angel, let us see how well you burn,” one demon hisses gleefully, and it bares a jagged dagger directly above Castiel’s chest cavity. Castiel narrows his eyes, clenches his fists and says, “Not nearly as well as you.”  


The move is deft, a simple re-direction of movement, guiding the blade into the nearest demon’s throat and flaring his grace out pointedly at the others, burning them to ashes where they stand. Those who remain are met with a kiss from his blade, retrieved from the surrounding area, metal singing in the air.  


He returns from the suicide mission – though it would never be called such by his “superiors” – with no more than a few non-perilous injuries, defiantly holding Zachariah’s disbelievingly livid gaze.  


*  


Castiel has not been to earth in near two millennia when the order comes.  


After he is briefed, he makes to leave. It will be an arduous task, and if he wants everything to go well, he will have to start making preparations immediately. For some reason, he is hardly surprised when Zachariah stops him with a light, “Where are you going, Castiel?”  


Without turning back – Zachariah is outranked now, for this is nothing but Castiel’s jurisdiction – Castiel answers, “I must prepare for the trip. It will take some time.”  


Zachariah is quiet for a long moment, and then he grinds out, “Dean Winchester will stay in Hell.”  


That- that is not at all what Castiel was expecting. He knows that Zachariah is the angel he would trust least in any manner, but this seems to be poor judgment beyond his usual modus operandi. Leaving Dean Winchester in the Pit would benefit no one… No one unless-  


“You would have me leave him to rot? As important as he is?”  


Zachariah makes a derisive noise from deep in his throat and Castiel finally turns to face him. The other angel seems to have regained his typical haughty temperament, for the look he gives Castiel is one of ego. It speaks of secrets that are not his to know and lies and truths.  


“Dean Winchester is hardly as important as you seem to think, Castiel. If anything, he’s a means to an end. He can grace the Pit with his presence for a little while longer,” Zachariah drawls, smirking when Castiel’s wing stiffen in disbelief.  


“He is the Righteous Man, Zachariah. If he is to be pulled from the depths of Hell, why delay it? That would only heighten the chance of something going wrong.”  


Anger now, condescension. Zachariah scowls and Castiel frowns deeply in return.  


“This is not up for debate, Castiel-”  


“You are right, because this fall under _my_ command. The fate of Dean Winchester’s soul falls to _me_ , and it would be foolish to leave him in Hell – ”  


Zachariah effectively quiets him with a swift, “These are direct orders from _The Father_ , Castiel.”  


Silence.  


It’s the last thing he’s expecting, considering. But Castiel knows that Zachariah’s orders, if they can be called such, come from the highest ranking archangels; it would not be so much of a stretch for the order to have come from the Father himself. Castiel could almost believe it, if he had not met with the Father on multiple occasions. And while his Father might be vengeful and merciless at times, he would never leave a soul to rot in Hell, not if the soul was destined to be retrieved. Castiel must believe that with all that he is; no matter his prior doubts, he cannot fathom that the Father would leave an ordained soul at the cruel mercies of the Pit.  


This means that Zachariah is more than likely lying. Castiel once more finds himself unsurprised.  


He decides to switch tactics, and try to get any sort of information through humility. He averts his gaze first, keeping Zachariah in his peripheral. The angel smirks, thinking he has won, and turns his back to Castiel as Castiel had done to him. It rankles, deferring to someone as ignorant and vicious as Zachariah, but he persists.  


“I do not understand,” he says at length, going for confused and meek, “Why must I wait? If I am to retrieve Dean Winchester before he breaks the first seal-”  


“He won’t,” Zachariah says offhandedly as he gazes into the thick clouds around them, not bothering to face Castiel, “Leave the details to your betters, Castiel. You will retrieve the man called Dean Winchester from Hell in two months. Dismissed.”  


*  


Castiel leaves, doubts already forming within his mind.  


*  


Castiel has been on his fair share of crusades in the Father’s name; sent to exterminate unruly spirits and creatures and demons, even more so under the jurisdiction of the angels. He has successfully completed all of them, which is more than some can say.  


Hell is still nothing he can prepare for.  


It is a cacophony of image and sound and taste and smell. It is dark in most places, lit by fire in others, brightest in its edges and center. There are moans and screams and cackling that seem to come from the hollows left behind by souls, but there is an otherwise unnerving silence. Everything smells of blood and despair and raw flesh, so thick that he can taste it, cloying, in the back of his throat.  


He has been sent here – to the Pit, the domain of demons, where nothing is to be sacred or trusted or believed. He is accompanied by Carousel, Eniel, Zephkiel, and Galiel, a dominion he has been close to for as long as he can remember. Galiel, Eniel and himself will provide the offense, whilst Zephkiel is a rather well-rounded angel of talent, and Carousel is an unparalleleded healer.  


He can feel it within the deepest and furthest stretches of his very being that this mission is not one to be taken lightly, nor is he fully confident in the Intel given to him by Zachariah. Unfortunately, or worryingly enough, he had been sought out by Sariel and the origin of the mission had been confirmed as having come from The Father. Castiel knows that this is just, but he cannot shake the feeling that they have waited too long to do any good. Although months in Hell are but mere days in the Mortal Plane, Castiel knows how quickly a human soul can be felled under the ministrations of demons. But he is the lead operative, the most knowledgeable about these kinds of tasks, and his doubts have no place here.  


When they arrive, there is nothing but the echo of moving chains to greet them. Their grace is flaring wildly, trying to find some connect to the Host, but unable to. Castiel is far more concerned with them being spotted so easily.  


“Bind your grace with at least one other here, and then dampen it. We need not be spotted as soon as we arrive,” he tells the others.  


Zephkiel binds with Eniel, Galiel and Castiel bind with each other, and Carousel then binds with all of them, and latches the conglomerate grace deep within him. They move forward cautiously, Zephkiel taking point and Galiel bringing up the rear.  


Castiel knows that time moves slower in Hell than on Earth, but faster than in Heaven, and estimates that is has been nearly two human months since Dean Winchester had been dragged to hell, and it will take them perhaps two human months or more to peruse all of Hell for the soul, abscond with it back to the Host, heal it and then restore it to its mortal body.  


“Let us go,” he says, and they move further into the Pit.  


*  


There appears to be no discernable pattern, no rhyme or reason to Hell’s structure.  


Some parts of it look ancient, and are likely from when the Pit was first created and Lucifer flung into it. There are a lot of medieval parts, full of rusting iron twisted creations, and instruments of torture. Other parts are more contemporary; some so modern that Castiel believes man to have not caught up with it yet. They meet surprisingly few demons, as they trek, and the ones they do meet are quickly subdued before a disturbance can be made. Insofar, their swift break into Hell has been successful – every demon mistakes them for souls on the run, and their grace is so artfully hidden away by Carousel that no damned souls call out to them for forgiveness or help.  


Castiel has good feelings about this mission.  


*  


That impression lasts all of three weeks, Hell time.  


*  


By the peak of the third Human month since Dean Winchester’s soul has been claimed, things have gotten progressively worse.  


They cannot feel even a glimpse of Dean Winchester’s soul, which should be impossible as they are assured that he was dragged to the Pit under orders of Lilith herself, and the prolonged separation from the Host has left them all feeling antsy and paranoid. They are running out of time, out of patience and out of will. This must be finished soon, or it will not be finished at all.  


“We must keep ourselves bound and hidden,” Castiel insists for what feels like the fiftieth time, “One can manage the dampening and the other can manage the binding. We can keep each other safe, and sane.”  


“Or drive each other mad,” Eniel sneers.  


Castiel does not like this, cannot deal with these side effects of Hell. While smothering their essence does keep them hidden, it also makes them more susceptible to the sinful and negative emotions permeating the air. Eniel has become the most cynical by far, while Galiel is prone to violent outbursts, Carousel has become more spaced out and unnaturally submissive, and Zephkiel has attempted to fornicate with them all and once, with all of them at the same time.  


Castiel would like to say that he has remained unaffected, but he can feel those little grains of doubt morphing and warping into pebbles and stones, and an intense thrill of emotion every time he runs his blade through a demon, and it comes back stained in ichors. The need to see blood spilt – to have someone pay for this futile endeavor-  


They need to get out of here, and soon.  


*  


Galiel is the one who finds the passageway.  


They had been making their way towards what might have been the east-south quarter, when a horde of demons had materialized and set upon them. The fight was brutal and long – at one point, Carousel found himself reaching up and efficiently snapping the neck of a demon, with a precision only found in practiced healers, and Galiel shoved his entire arm up to the shoulder through a demon attempting to sneak up within Castiel’s blind spot. Eniel picked off every demon that tried to flee, and Zephkiel and Castiel took down a majority of those attacking.  


The last demon dropped to the ground, and the adrenaline drained from Castiel faster than he was ready for, but Carousel steadies him, and sends a small burst of warm, comforting and healing grace into Castiel’s wings.  


“I-” Galiel begins, haltingly, and they all turn to look at him, “Something is- I cannot- _**FUCK!**_ -”  


At the expletive, he grabs the ankle of a dead demon, and hurls the body into the nearest wall. Carousel gives a sharp inhale, and Castiel can feel his eyes widen. He knows that Hell has had no positive effects on any of them, but he has never before seen any angelic being, let alone a Dominion, employ human curses. Eniel looks indifferent, and Zephkiel is regarding Galiel with what Castiel believes is lust. Carousel keeps his eyes trained on the ground in deference, as he has for a majority of their journey.  


Galiel is gripping his head tightly, and still trying to form cohesive sentences, only becoming more enraged as words fail him. 10 wings are shifting erratically, made corporeal in Galiel’s mounting distress.  


“This- There is something that I cannot-”  


Instead of finishing, or at the very least, trying to finish his statement, Galiel lets out a shout of pure fury, and takes his blade – a heavy and ornamented claymore – and brings it forward into a momentous blow against the cavern wall. Then he does it again. And again and again, until Castiel’s hand snaps out and grabs hold of his wrist.  


“Brother, wait!”  


Galiel snarls something that might be ‘what’ in the same way that a lion’s roar is a greeting, and Castiel forces the dominion’s arm down to his side, and gestures to the cavern wall with his free hands.  


“Look.”  


They all turn to the wall, even Eniel, and Carousel reaches curiously. At his tentative brush, some of the stalagmites fall away to pieces, far too easily. They turn to dust in Carousel’s palm. Where the rock used to be, there are the beginnings of an open space that crackle and shift as protective warding crumbles. A secret passage.  


“Galiel, you have done it,” Castiel whispers reverently.  


“What?” Zephkiel asks, after silence.  


“Galiel has found him. I can sense Dean Winchester.”  


*  


The first sight of Dean Winchester that Castiel has is of the man, standing unsteadily before another soul, holding a wickedly deformed blade. A demon is a few steps behind him, grinning madly. Dean shakily raises the blade to the other soul.  


“ **NO!** ” Zephkiel, Eniel and Castiel scream. Galiel curses promptly, and Carousel pales. Dean and the demon both appear to have heard them, for the human’s head snaps toward the noise.  


The demon’s grin gets larger, and it begins to hiss something at Dean. Dean regards the lot of them for a few seconds more before turning back to the rack. Castiel can feel what must be adrenaline coursing through his veins – the Righteous Man is right there, and has yet to actually break the First Seal.  


They are but a stretch of a corridor down, a few human kilometeres, a distance than can be cleared with little effort. They can make it, if they hurry; they can save the seal.  


Out from the shadows, three archdemons and ninety hordes of demons materialize, and block the path.  


*  


Both of Castiel’s blades are covered in ichor and chitin, and there are still nearly eighty demons and two archdemons left. Zephkiel – bleeding heavily from taking down the first archdemon – is being tended to by Carousel, while Eniel defends, and Galiel cleaves multiple demons into pieces at once.  


Castiel knows a tactical strategy when he sees one, and he knows that these demons are nothing more than a diversion. All that matters is that they cannot reach Dean Winchester, and cannot stop him from breaking. But they refuse to give up, not after having come so far. They will retrieve Dean Winchester from Hell, and they will do it before he begins the End of Days. They must.  


The battle drags on for hours, then days and then months – years in hell. Near a decade.  


The sound of movement behind him has Castiel pivoting off of his left foot, bringing his blades around in a swift arc, and hitting the demon right in the sternum. Galiel, to his right, twists skillfully and brings his sword down through the heads of two demons.  


“Brother!” Zephkiel suddenly screams, and after a moment, Carousel screams in wordless agony with him.  


Castiel and Galiel whip around, and Castiel nearly drops his blades.  


One of the archdemons – Belphegor, or perhaps Belial – has Eniel pressed hard against a wall, and is slowly driving two of its fists into the angel’s chest, uncaring of the screams Eniel releases, the sounds mostly lost in the din of battle.  


The archdemon – Castiel decides that it must be Belphegor, because the other archdemon a ways down the corridor is permeating the air with a heavy wave of thick carnal want – gives a low chuckle and yanks its arms to the side until there is a loud crack that overtakes even the sounds of battle. Several of the demons actually stop in their tracks, turning to regard the scene before them.  


“Eniel!” Zephkiel and Carousel cry, the seraph doubling over in physical pain as Eniel’s grace no doubt implodes, and Zephkiel is rushing at Belphegor, features twisted with hatred.  


This is no longer simply a diversion.  


*  


Eniel’s body lay slumped against the wall he died on, and Castiel cannot stop his eyes from wandering to it.  


He has seen death, he has seen Death and he has seen his Brothers and Sisters die before him, at the hands of demons. This is nothing new.  


But still, the stillness there causes him distress, and he cannot help but feel as though something has gone horrendously wrong, and that this is only the beginning.  


*  


Carousel and Castiel start to make quick work of the fifty demons, fueled by anger and loss, before Galiel takes wing and goes to help Zephkiel in his mad swings at Belphegor. Carousel seems to have glued himself to Castiel’s side, and while Castiel is grateful for the back-up and the endless stream of healing bursts sent his way, it worries him still.  


With twin roars, Galiel swings his blade through Belphegor’s torso just as Zephkiel brings his mace down on the archdemon’s skull. The noise is both a heavy crunch and a loud ripping sound, as though they have deconstructed the demon down to the very building blocks of its being. Belphegor gasps wetly, and jerks before exploding into inky darkness, that warms into ash and falls to the floor.  


Carousel snaps the neck of the last demon, almost taking the head clear off. The sound echoes in the sudden silence of the bloodied and pock-marked passageway.  


As one, they turn to face Belial.  


Where Belphegor had been twisted, a multitude of arms and teeth, Belial is even more so – two human torsos connected at one pelvis, limbs melded together, a multitude of eyes and mouths, and conjoined dog heads at the neck, open maws panting hot breath and showing sharp fangs.

As they move towards him, the archdemon doesn’t seem worried in the least, and Castiel knows why as soon as he lets his grace flare out in the smallest iota. Belial is far more powerful than Belphegor had been; maybe even on par with Mammon or Moloch. There is the slightest chance that they five – no, no four now – could take him, but Castiel cannot estimate for sure who would suffer more for it, nor who would live to see the mission brought to completion.  


Galiel takes a step forward, hands tightening on the hilt of his claymore, but Castiel holds his arm out, never once taking his eyes from Belial. Instead of retaliating, Belial smiles.  


 _ **Hello Angels**_ , it says, fangs flashing and tongues lolling, voices like honey and sweet promises over warbled dark tones. It saunters forward until it reaches Castiel, _**Would You Like To Play?**_  


Zephkiel growls, but makes no attempt to move at the archdemon.  


“You are the archdemon Belial,” Castiel states, because he cannot afford the vulnerability of inquiries. Belial nods.  


Carousel surprises Castiel by being the next to speak, “We ask only that you not block our way. We have no wish to fight you. The death of one of our number is more than enough.”  


Castiel’s spine goes rigid, and he fights desperately to keep his reaction in check. It is not an untoward approach, but considering that they just finished slaughtering an entire contingent of demons and two archdemons within the demons’ own domain could certainly be taken the wrong way. Surprise of all surprises, Belial nods, conceding to Carousel’s supplication, but it never breaks eye contact with Castiel.  


Its ears - pointed and canidae - abruptly swivel, and it turns its head to glance down the corridor, keeping one set of eyes on them. Then It turns back with a fierce grin, the joined mouths of the dog heads stretching to show many teeth. The right side of the head cocks an ear to the side, as though listening to a sound only it can hear. Castiel feels something within him clench, and he hopes desperately and foolishly that it is nothing.  


“ **You Shall Pass Us** ,” the grinning left side of the head says with a dark echo, and Belial moves toward the corridor wall, and the right side continues, speaking solely to Castiel this time, “ _And We Will See You Again, Little Angel._ ”  


Belial vanishes.

*  


They are far, far too late.  


(It is the first time, Castiel thinks much later – entire lifetimes later – that an angel has given their life for Dean Winchester, only to have the man fail where it counts most)  


*  


By the time that they finally reach Dean Winchester’s soul, they are tired and scarred and grieving (and in Castiel’s case, wary of the intentions of archdemons). The soul on the rack shrieks loudly, convulsing against the chains holding it down, as Dean Winchester slowly cuts its ribs with a thick hooked blade. The demon behind Dean grins at them, and continues to grin as it moves to stop them from interrupting the so-called Righteous Man.  


Carousel, seemingly back to his former invulnerable temperament, banishes the demon to the other end of hell without even looking at it.  


“Who the fuck are you?” Dean Winchester asks, his tone nowhere close to the gratitude he should be showing. Castiel feels what could be annoyance.  


“We are Angels of the Lord, and We have come to rescue your soul before it falls into indelible sin, Dean Winchester.”  


Dean snorts and gestures to the rack with his knife, “Bang up job so far, huh?”  


The soul screams again, this time at them, asking and pleading and crying for salvation. It yells at Dean, wondering why he – why a filthy torturing monster – is marked to be saved and no one else. The cry reverberates off the walls, and carries on the wind to all of Hell.  


The walls begin to hiss and shake as demons coalesce, and Galiel curses under his breath. They have been found out. Castiel meets Carousel’s eyes, then Galiel’s and finally Zephkiel’s before they break into action.  


Carousel releases all of their grace, and Galiel sends a colossal wave of it out with a swing of his claymore, killing an entire advancing horde of demons instantly. Castiel dodges the errant swipes Dean makes at him and knocks the man’s soul into a low-leveled consciousness, and Zephkiel holds an Enochian-inscribed zone around the five of them. The cavern walls shake, and begins to groan loudly as it collapses from all the movement.  


ANGELS, ANGELS, ANGELS HERE, KILL KILL KILL THEM!, The demons are chanting, and Galiel sends out another sharp slice of grace, beheading many.  


“There are too many!” He yells, but he doesn’t stop hacking away at them. Castiel tucks Dean Winchester’s soul deep within his grace, and draws his blades.  


“There is no time for that, Castiel!” Carousel shouts to him over the chanting of the demons and Galiel’s warcries. The demons are swarming in ginormous waves, and Castiel gets the feeling that nearly every demon in Hell is closing in on their location. The idea hits Castiel with an intensity that nearly knocks him off his feet.  


“Ascend!” Castiel yells back to Carousel, and yells it again when all he gets is a wide-eyed look. Zephkiel continues to hold up the Enochian wards, weaving them with one hand and shooting hardened balls of grace into the faces of any demons that get to close with the other. The wards do their job, blowing and demons who cross them into black matter.  


“What!” Galiel snarls, slashing through two demons, “Seems!” flinging another shockwave of grace, “To be the Problem?!”  


“Castiel wants me to Ascend!” Carousel defends, as he slams a demon’s face into the wall, over and over.  


“Are you mad?” Galiel shouts back, and Castiel manages to yell back a barebones explanation. He pauses to take a demon’s legs out from under it, and then crush the chest cavity.  


“You are mad, you brilliant bastard!” is Galiel’s only reply, before he’s reaming through more demons.  


This is perhaps the most intense battle that Castiel will ever participate in, and he will be damned if another one of his Brothers dies under his command. They have the Righteous Man. Eniel is dead. There is nothing more to lose, for Castiel refuses.  


“Carousel! Ascend!”  


Galiel and Zephkiel both flare blindingly as they send a large majority of their remaining grace at Carousel, who begins to swell up with light, like a supernova. There’s no point in hiding their nature, not when all of Hell knows that there are four angels in the Pit, trying to escape with a damned soul.  


And so, Castiel figures, why not give them a show?  


*  


A monstrous beam of light billows forth from their position, phasing through the tangible third dimension and, through the power of their graces combined, straight into the Host. The passageway gives one final moan of despair and collapses in on itself, and every demon within their immediate reaches bursts into flame and ash. The brilliant luminescence blinds everything else.  


From Carousel’s mouth tumble archaic Enochian prayers, and Castiel can feel the strength in the words wrap him in a cocoon of impenetrable force. Within his grace, Dean Winchester is awed.  


And so, it was then that the Angel Zephkiel, the Dominions Galiel and Castiel and the Seraph Carousel blew apart Hell itself in order to rescue the Righteous Man.  


*  


As soon as they stumble into the Silver City, they are set upon by frantic Healers. Zephkiel is holding Eniel’s body to him and weeping, ignoring any attempts to heal him. Galiel heaves a deep sigh of relief, and let’s himself be tended to. Carousel starts to fall into a dead faint, but Castiel and Lidriel, one of the Healers, catch him and lower him steadily to the ground. By now, Zephkiel is struggling desperately to hold onto Eniel’s body, snarling at anyone who gets too close. The Healers are trying to calm him to no avail, and trying to lay Eniel to a proper rest. They are all bloodied and heavily abused from the Pit.  


At the niggling feeling prodding his grace, Castiel raises his head to meet the arrogant eyes of Zachariah.  


Zachariah, who all but sent them on a suicide mission – which is nothing new for Castiel, but to so thoughtlessly endanger others like that, others who have done nothing to deserve it; it enrages him. Zachariah, who sent them _too late_ to save Dean Winchester, and Castiel feels it was no miscalculation. Castiel shrugs off his weariness and meets Zachariah’s eyes, and refuses to bow his head. Zachariah frowns and Castiel flares his grace enough to partially unveil the cautious and broken soul of Dean Winchester.  


Castiel barely acknowledges the abject surprise from Zachariah, the brief anger and worry, and walks away.  


He has a soul to heal.  


*  


“Explain.”  


Castiel is tired, and angry. His wings are heavy with blood, and he has yet to heal himself of all his injuries. Dean Winchester’s soul is a burden within his grace, and he longs for nothing more than to return the frustrating human to his corporeal body and be done with it. Castiel has had enough of Zachariah’s meddling.  


Even now the other angel – so lowly, so beneath him that it is laughable, were he the kind to be cruel – wears a smug look. Haughty. Arrogant.  


“Explain what-”  


“Do not even entertain the thought of toying with me, Zachariah. Or shall I show you the strength of we Dominion?” His voice is the low hiss of feline, and he can feel his grace flaring up, threatening to overwhelm. The other, at least, has the courtesy to look cowed and wary, before scrambling madly for bravado. Castiel interjects again, before Zachariah can even start his condescension.  


“You will answer to the others personally, in regards to how your so-called Intel neglected to mention that the Righteous Man was a prize of Hell. You will answer to them why it was not noted that Dean Winchester was guarded by legions and archdemons at all times. You will have to answer to them, to Zephkiel especially, and make a paltry attempt to atone for the death of Eniel. You will explain how you failed to mention the lasting effects of being separated from the Host, and you will have to explain to them that you _allowed_ Dean Winchester’s soul to fester for decades before you even put in the request. You, Zachariah, will own up to your foolish errors, and you will take responsibility for allowing the First Seal to break! But that will all come later,” he pauses to calm himself, to rein in his anger, for Zachariah is looking pallid and wilted, “For now, we will settle. For now, you will answer to **_me_**.”  


Zachariah is giving him a wide-eyed look of disbelief and fear. It sways him little (Hell has changed him, and he can feel it in him). Within his grace, the soul of Dean Winchester stirs in question.  


“So tell me, brother, for _what_ reason – what plausible reason could you dare give me – am I being forbidden from returning Dean Winchester to his body?”  


*  


The lasting effects of Hell do not mend as easily as their wounds.  


“Where is it?!” Zephkiel snarls, trying to push past Castiel, only to have Galiel hold him back.  


“Brother, please! Be calm-”  


“Where is the filthy human, Castiel? It is his fault! Eniel is dead and it is all the fault of that vile creature!”  


Galiel grunts as one of Zephkiel’s flailing limbs catches him in the midsection. He manages to restrain Zephkiel, holding him tightly. Carousel looks vaguely worried, and a little confused.  


“It is not the fault of Dean Winchester that our brother Eniel is no longer with us,” Castiel snaps, nearly startling Zephkiel out of his anger, “For he was but a mortal enduring the tortures of the Pit.”  


“But it is someone’s fault, isn’t it?” Carousel asks, watching Castiel carefully. The seraph’s continued progression of human emotions was at first alarming, but Camael – or Joshua, as he sometimes preferred – had insisted that Carousel was not Falling, the trauma of Hell had simply realigned his Aspect to that of a Guardian and Comforter.  


“If you must blame anyone, Zephkiel, blame Belphegor for the action. Blame Zachariah for his incompetence, if you must. But do not blame the broken soul of Dean Winchester.”  


Zephkiel looks thoughtful for but a moment, before the sneer returns, “Shall I blame you then, our _fearless leader_ who drove us to fight for hellish years without success?”  


“I –” the words cause a flare of something unpleasant, but they are not untrue, “… blame who you must, Brother. Even me.”  


Zephkiel laughs, a bitter human sound, tearing himself from Galiel’s grip. He turns to leave, shaking his wings in contempt at the three of them.  


“You are no Brothers of mine.”  


*  


(Later, Galiel tells him: Zephkiel has fallen.)  


*  


“So this is him, hmm?” Balthazar sounds completely unimpressed, and looks even more so, as he regards the soul of Dean Winchester in all its fractured glory. Castiel would prefer to do this alone, but he would also prefer not to risk Dean’s soul more than necessary. Besides, Balthazar is one of the best at shaping Life from the elements, second only to what Gabriel was.  


“Balthazar, please. Just instruct me on how to heal him,” Castiel says, not unkindly.  


“Fine. But only because you said ‘please’, Cassie,” Balthazar sighs, and then begins to dig sigils into the sand, “You’ve probably done a couple Creations here and there over the years, but since this is an astral plane existing outside of the Earth’s dimension, you’ll have to make do with what’s here.”  


Castiel nods and he and Balthazar carry Dean’s soul to the middle of the runes, and Castiel gently sets all the shards and slivers he was able to retrieve to the side.  


“Alright Cassie,” Balthazar says brightly, and Castiel can feel a feeble smile pulling at his lips, “We’re going to have to build your boy back up from the ground, and then you’ll seal it all together. Clear?”  


Castiel nods, and then glances around. He knows the shores intimately, as they were made for him, but he is not sure what all can be used to _create_. There is little life to be found here, other than the marine creatures that inhabit the water, the specie spanning the history of the earth-  


“Wrong,” Balthazar says loudly, interrupting the thought, “Time for Creation 101, Cassie.”  


“… 101? Is- Is that a mortal reference? I do not understand what you mean, Balthazar.”  


Balthazar ignores his confusion and draws him closer, nearly cloaking Castiel underneath his grace, “The first thing you should know is that life can be created with anything because all things come from life.”  


He frowns a moment, and then instructs, “Fill in the cracks first. Pick something smooth and malleable enough to completely seal everything together; something that will move with the twists and indecisiveness of humans.”  


Castiel concentrates a moment, and then breathes Creation and Life into some of the water, and uses it to reshape Dean’s soul.  


“Good, good. Now, take the slivers and destroy their form, but bond their essence to something that will counteract the taint.”  


That takes a moment more of consideration, but then Castiel takes the sky itself – blue and clear – and bonds its serenity and comfort with the energy of Dean’s memories. Perhaps that will prevent any mental trauma from the Pit.  


With Balthazar’s instruction, Castiel uses smooth stones to anchor the sky-memories to the soul, the fine sand heated to beautiful glass for skin, the teeth of the Megalodon in the water for bones, coral and sea flowers for organs and fat, the supple flesh of eels for muscles and vivid moss from the tower for eyes. The dark speckles of sand for freckles (a human trait Castiel finds _fascinating_ ). The warmth of the unsetting sun woven into his voice. Water and the heat of Castiel's residual grace to make blood.  


Rebuilding Dean Winchester’s body – removing every blemish and scar, every organ and muscle remade in peak physical condition – around his soul takes at least three years, and Castiel is glad of Balthazar’s foresight to carry out the task in a plane where the passage of time has no bearing on any other plane of existence.  


Finally, they have finished, and a metaphysical representation of Dean Winchester’s corporeal body lies before them.  


“You’ve got a good eye for this, Cassie,” Balthazar says, wrapping Castiel in a blanket of warm approval and delight, "Now, let's go shove this thing back into a proper corporeal body."  


*  


It is only later – much, much later - when Dean Winchester falls to the floor, clutching his ears in pain as glass explodes all around him from the magnitude of an angel’s Voice, that Castiel believes something to have gone very, very wrong.  


***


	3. if you could give us the answers now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hopes that Raziel has not changed in his absence.

***

“I’ll hold them off! I’ll hold them all off!”

He can barely hear himself over the din of Raphael’s arrival. The prophet’s house smells of alcohol and sweat, and now peppered with Dean’s leather musk and his own static charge. 

“Cas-” Dean starts, looking thrown, as though he never believed Castiel capable of rebelling. As though he is realizing that perhaps he had been too quick to judge Castiel, too quick to dismiss him.

“Go!” Castiel snarls, because now is not the time for Dean’s re-evaluations of his character, and he sends Dean to Sam just as the last windows blow out. Raphael is nearly fully formed in this plane, and Castiel has yet to think of a plan. If he’s quick enough – if he can clear enough spaces to lay down banishing wards, then maybe-

 **Angel** , a voice says.

No.

No, not now. Now when it matters the most. This cannot be happening.

“Please,” Castiel whispers, and if he doesn’t look it’s not real.

 **You Owe Me A Boon, Angel** , Death says mercilessly, **I Have Not Forgotten That.**

“Please!” Castiel shouts, hears his voice crack, “Please, not now. There is so much dependent upon this – I- Please, don’t.”

Death looks unmoved.

Castiel takes a deep breath, shaky and trembling, and turns to face Death.

 _I Will Not Allow The End To Happen_ , he says firmly. Raphael is close enough to shake the window panes, and Chuck looks sick to his stomach, and a little horrified at Death’s presence.

 **You Cannot Stop What Is Meant To Occur** , Death retorts, and Castiel can feel that familiar burn in his throat and eyes. He refuses to cry in the face of Death, for he has faced far worse than Raphael, but dying here would leave the Winchesters at the mercy of his bretheren and Castiel would not wish that even upon his enemies. 

But if he is meant to die here – before Death, before the Prophet, before Raphael’s swift and impending arrival – then he will die.

 _I Will Die Here_ , Castiel says, confidently as though this is a choice and not providence, _And You Will Help The Winchesters_.

Death looks curious, **Oh?**

Castiel takes a deep breath, _If I Die Here, Then They Will Fail, Will They Not?_

Death says nothing, and Castiel takes it as assurance.

_Then When They Need Your Help, In The Apocalypse You **Allowed** To Happen, You Will Help._

It’s a gamble, more than any other he’s ever taken, trying to coerce Death into anything. But Castiel has not lived so long, gotten so far, done so much to take mind of courtesies.

Death stares as him, its vessel small and young, blurring in Castiel’s vision as it becomes more than he can see, the very antithesis to life.

 **Bold Angel** , Death hisses, the depth of its voice overtaking the din of Raphael’s arrival. _True_ power, Castiel thinks. The difference between Death's annoyance and Raphael's rage is so stark that for a moment, Castiel can feel nothing.

 **It Will Be As You Say** , Death continues, and before Castiel can even register his surprise, Death is gone and Raphael is there and Chuck is shouting his name and Castiel knows _**nothi**_

*

He’s stuck in this body now – an irony, to be stuck in the flesh of one of his many times over great ‘grandchildren’. The feel is very nearly familiar; dark hair and bright eyes. Skin paler than he remembers, more made of snow than of the earth. He remembers, what seems to be such a long time ago, how it used to be.

He misses it.

*

“There’s nothing else we can do to gank this sonnuvabitch?” Dean sounds incredulous, angry. As though Castiel should have the solution already. Like he is some sort of all-knowing encyclopedia; something faultless and perfect in its divinity.

It frustrates Castiel. He has not been that in a long, long time.

“I am an angel, Dean,” he says, can feel his displeasure pulling harshly on the vocal chords of his vessel, more harshly than usual. “An angel, not a hat-trick. It’s not as though I have lived for nothing but the destruction of Lucifer.”

There is silence after that. Dean, scowling and a little chastised. Sam and Bobby contemplative, and Castiel indifferent.

“Is- is there something else we could try? The Colt didn’t work, are there any other weapons that might?” Sam’s voice is quiet, at an attempt to be soothing; trying to settle any feathers that Dean more than likely ruffled. The apt description makes the corners of Castiel’s lips quirk up, and negates any condescension that might have come with the soft tone.

“Only the blade of an archangel can harm another archangel. There aren’t many archangels left, if you can imagine,” a sudden thought gives him pause, “But…”

“Yeah? But?” Dean’s looking at him now, intensely. He can feel it – they all can – that this ‘but’ is going to be a big one.

“I may have a… friend, who can help us. If there is anything more we can do, he will know.”

Dean looks relieved, and Sam excited. Bobby just looks suspicious.

“You don’t sound too sure about that,” he drawls, dry enough to make Castiel feel inadequate, but not just quite enough to make him angry.

“I have not spoken to him in some time. He… may not be alive. Or willing to talk to me. But I can try.”

Bobby nods, because he does not care for Castiel, the way he cares for Sam and Dean. He likes Castiel well enough, as much as a human could like an angel, but he does not trust Castiel. He would not mourn Castiel, except for the sake of Dean. A fleeting sadness, of no substance. They both - Castiel and Bobby - know this, because neither would Castiel mourn Bobby but for the sake of Dean. Eons ago, Castiel would've mourned the loss of such a potential bond. Now, he barely pays it mind.

Castiel takes a deep (unnecessary) breath.

He hopes that Raziel has not changed in his absence.

*

Dean insists upon going with him, he and Sam both. Castiel doesn’t know why, but there isn’t any particular reason why they can’t. So Castiel agrees, after a lengthy pause and a deep, hard look at Dean (who had fidgeted uncomfortably and then snapped, ‘Enough already, can we go now?’).

He can’t return to the Host – nor could he have taken Dean or Sam there – so he takes them all to the shores. Only a few can find him there. He hasn’t been there is what feels like an eternity. And when they arrive, humans of all manner are loitering around; knowing where it is they are headed, but unable to reach their final rest without the proper guidance. Castiel takes a long survey of the crowd, and then turns to the Winchesters.

“What the hell?” Dean says, and then, “Holy shit, it that Genghis Khan?”

It is, and Castiel tells Dean such. He replies in the same manner to inquiries about Cleopatra, Che Guevara, Mother Teresa, Harriet Tubman, Hatsheput, Cesar Chavez, and Ataturk (The last three are from Sam, and each question is met with an answer from Castiel, and a ‘Dude, you are such a fucking nerd. Who even knows who the hell that is?’ from Dean).

“Where are we?” Sam asks, finally.

“This is… land granted to me by the Father. It is necessary in order for me to fully live up to the tasks of my Aspect.”

“What?” Dean says, followed by, “I thought your purpose was just ‘to carry out His will’ or some shit.”

Castiel frowns, because he can recall saying such, but had not meant for everything to remain so vague. He is silent for a moment, and then a moment more, because he has never been good at explaining things, and especially not to humans.

“Wait here. I will be back.” It’s abrupt and maybe a little cowardly, but he needs a moment or two to himself to find the right words. And then he is off, unfurling his wings and gliding to the opposite end of the strip of beach.

It takes a long time – longer than he had expected, but then again, he had neglected his duty for a good two thousand years – to walk every human of greatness to their final rest. Some are so tired of waiting that they are just short of curt and impolite with him. Others take their time to take in the sights and make small talk. He can feel the joy of doing what he is meant to do fill him with each soul passed, and by the time he is nearly done, he feels considerably lighter, and stronger. And despite his leave of absence, every Shinigami, Reaper, Valkyrie or jackal-headed golem gives him the deepest bows or nods of respect. The entire affair makes him feel more at home than he’s felt in a long while, and he is loathe to complete his tasks.

“Thank you, for the walk,” Asoka - who should have been one of the first to be taken, but had insisted upon being the very last (“I would much rather watch the waves. Go, I will be here when the others are gone.”) – bows to him, and then walks forward until he reaches the shinigami waiting at the gate, before he is whisked away to his afterlife.

When he finds them again, Sam is leaning against a large boulder, and Dean is sprawled out where a few shoots of grass break through the sand. Castiel folds his wings, tucks his legs beneath him and seats himself across from them.

“The beach doesn’t have a name. It just is. I have been neglecting my duties. That is why they were all here when we arrived.” As far as preambles go, it’s terrible and explains nothing, but Castiel feels as though the Winchesters deserve to know.

“Okay,” Sam says, and it feels more like conversational filler than an actual statement of comprehension.

Dean cuts in with, “So what the hell, man? What kind of angel is in charge of a beach full of old dead guys?”

“I am not an angel,” he begins with that because it’s important to clarify, but at the bewildered, alarmed and somewhat betrayed looks on Sam and Dean’s faces, he carries on before they can interject, “There are levels, you must understand. Angels – Angels and Archangels, Principalities, Powers, Virtues, Dominions, Thrones, Cherubim, and Seraphim. Only the angels and archangels are known to man, because they are largely the only ones to interact with man. Principalities and Virtues do not leave Heaven at all. Powers defend Heaven and its inhabitants, angel or otherwise. Dominions and Thrones have the functions of lower level angels with a larger capacity for power. Seraphim and Cherubim are power and knowledge combined, you could say.”

Sam looks interested, leaning forward and eager. Dean still looks confused, but willing to hear Castiel out. Castiel continues on, wanting to finish before they inevitably ask their questions.

“I am Dominion, but the Father delegated me to work with the Angels and Archangels because I would interact with humans in endeavoring to fulfill my Aspect. Within the each level, power is not determined by rank, but rather by Aspect. I have strength that can easily overcome a number of my ‘superiors’, yet they are privy to information that I can only dream of, and therefore, they hold the power. I am not like the Angels; I was not made to praise the Father, or to stay in the Heavens. My sole aspect is to meet and walk with the greatest of humanity. To meet and walk with _you_ , Dean Winchester.”

It is the most he has ever said at once, perhaps in his entire existence, he can tell from the shocked look on Sam’s face and the mix of surprise and embarrassment on Dean’s. His throat is scratchy from speaking so much, but if he doesn’t explain now, it will be harder to later.

“I am… meant to function differently. They are meant to follow the word of the Father, and I am meant to- to use his will to help man. I am the bridge between the divine and the mortal.” The words come slowly, but their meaning is sudden and right in his mouth. He doesn’t know why he’s said what he has, but he knows it to be true, and he can feel a great typhoon of purpose and happiness rise within him.

He has Purpose now. Not just an Aspect, or a function. Purpose.

“Very good, Castiel! I knew you would figure it out.” The voice is not one he recognizes, but tone and the words are all the same; warm and encouraging. 

He can feel a smile breaking through, and he pushes himself to his feet as Dean and Sam scramble up defensively. She looks nothing the same; a small, sturdy frame with laugh lines, dark skin, short white hair and the sharp twist to her words where there used to be nothing but light and wings, but Castiel would recognize her anywhere.

“Raziel.”

The woman smiles and dips her head.

“Ah, yes. Come, we have much to talk about, no?”

*

“I’m sorry Castiel, truly. But I cannot simply _tell_ you.”

“Seriously? It’s the friggin’ end of the world, why _not_?”

That would be Dean, arguing with Raziel – who, for reasons he would rather not think about, will not make eye contact with either Sam or Dean – while Sam and Castiel are silent.

“Brothe- Raziel. I do not wish for all of Lucifer’s secrets, just this one. You have told me secrets before, so why not this one? I like it no more than you, but we must stop him,” Castiel says finally, cutting Dean off mid-rant (again).

Raziel turns indigo eyes to him, and sighs. With that sigh, her entire body sags as though she is too tired to go on, and Castiel hates that he is the one who has caused such hopelessness.

“I can only share secrets with those they affect, Castiel. And while every action will inevitably affect many, there is still a… chain of command, so to speak, that I must abide by. The Apocalypse will affect the entire world, true, but it will affect angels with a far deeper impact than it will any other group. I could only see myself telling you three after Lucifer, Michael, Gabriel, Raphael and Raguel were informed.”

“And by then, it’d be a moot point,” Sam says, and Raziel nods tiredly.

“I am for keeping secrets-“

“And not sullying them. I understand, Raziel.”

“So,” Sam says, after a brief silence and a hissed _shut **up** , Dean_, “There’s nothing we can do at all?”

There is a longer pause, and then finally – finally – Raziel turns to face Sam directly.

“Not… necessarily. You were planning on going to Death, correct? In order to collect his ring so that you might connect the four and open a chasm to the Pit?”

Dean looks surprised and a little irritated, but Sam immediately nods.

“Yeah, but I have no idea how we’re going to bargain for it. We- I…. I might have to say yes.”

Raziel clucks her tongue and shakes her head and sighs again, “I have to admit, that sounds like a rather drastic measure.”

“Well, what the hell are we supposed to do?” Dean snaps, ignoring Sam’s sharp – really, really sharp – elbow to his ribs, “You’re not leaving us with much of a fucking choice!”

Both angels frown, and Castiel opens his mouth in Raziel’s defense, but the other interjects before he can speak.

“I just think it’s hasty, and quite unnecessary. Going through all that trouble to open a rift to Hell,” she turns to Castiel, and smiles warmly, “When after all, there is a Key.”

Castiel surges to his feet, and takes an abortive step towards Raziel.

“He still has it?”

“Of course! It’s been his from the beginning, and the Key responds to no other. It would be foolish to take it away.”

“And he’s alive? On this plane?”

“Yes, has been for some time. Perhaps only a century after Gabriel left?”

“Do you think that he would-”

“What the hell are you talking about,” Dean cuts in, eyes narrowed and voice flat. Sam looks uneasy, but equally upset about having been left out of the loop.

“Why Duma, of course. He has the Key,” Raziel answers, and she seems to be in good spirits once more, for being able to offer some aid.

“Who the hell is Duma-"

“The key to what?” Sam cuts in, and he sounds equal parts anxious and hopeful, and Castiel gives both he and Dean a smile. Both he and Raziel speak in the same moment:

“The Key to Hell.”

*

They find him in a hospice. 

Sam manages to get the nurses talking; no one knows anything about the kid. He just showed up, never said a word. Doesn’t bother anyone. On his last legs, they say. It looks to be a new kind of cancer – one they’ve never seen. An effect of being separated from the Host for so long, Castiel would guess. Or perhaps, from being in such close contact with the Key.

Duma’s vessel is a spindly little thing. All thin limbs and sharp joints. His face is narrow, but full. He has a head full of thick curled hair - the inky black going white near the temples; it accents the smooth dark tone of his skin. His eyes are a lighter, icier blue than Castiel’s, and they are ringed with gold. He is wearing a hoodie that is too big for him, and its sleeves are pushed up as far as they can go. His jeans are dark – probably with dirt and grime – and ratty. He’s sitting upright on a battered old mattress, feet bare, staring out of the window and into the sky. Behind him, Castiel can see many wings, haggard and drooping.

Castiel sits down in the chair next to the bed. The boy doesn’t move.

“Duma,” Castiel intones. There is no movement from the bed, but Castiel continues, “I am Castiel. These are the Winchester brother, Sam and Dean. We have not spoken before now, but-“

Castiel ignores Dean’s half-muttered _‘I thought he was the Angel of Silence. When would you have spoken?’_ and narrows his eyes. He focuses, swears he thought he felt the barest whispers of- Yes, there it is again. A flick here, and a swell there. A question. A specific one.

“… Yes. Dean broke the first, and Sam the last. They are the ones foretold.”

Sam flinches and Dean scowls, and both of them look sufficiently awkward. Dean growls out, “What gives, Cas?”

Castiel tilts his head to the side, considering Duma’s vessel.

“He speaks with his grace, as most angels do. But speaking with grace is similar to only speaking with facial expressions or body language alone; he does not accompany his feelings with words. And since very few bother to interpret the exact intent behind flares of grace, they call him Silent.”

The boy finally turns to face him, and they stare at each other until Sam clears his throat, and they turn in tandem to stare at him. Dean calls them both creepy.

“So can he help us?” Sam manages an even tone, although Duma’s stare clearly unsettles him.

Castiel and Duma turn back to each other, and Castiel flares his own grace, and then molds it until it forms the question he desires. He backs it with feelings of peace and hope. Duma’s reply is mostly curiosity and intrigue, but there is no refusal there.

“Lucifer is walking free,” he extrapolates aloud for the benefit of the bewildered mortals behind them, “And Raziel assured me that you still have the Key. With it, we can re-cage him, and spare both he and Michael the pain of slaying each other.”

Duma nods, and then stretches his legs out on the mattress. He curls and uncurls his toes, and then wraps Castiel in another question.

“Yes, they are the vessels too. They would- We would prefer not to go down that road, however. Sam has been imbibed with demon blood and it would only serve to strengthen Lucifer.”

At that, Duma turns from Sam to Castiel, and smiles. It is not a nice smile. Sam frowns, and Dean does too. Castiel sighs.

“It was the demon Azazel, and then the addiction was fed. It was out of my hands before I arrived.”

Duma tilts his head from side to side a few times, and then his grace undulates around the four of them, curious and eager.

“Of course. Will I be able to contact you easily?”

Duma smiles softly, stepping forward off the bed to pat Castiel’s cheek like a parent to a child. His grace – all of it – fills the room until the air thins and there is nothing but _Duma_. Castiel can hear Sam and Dean struggle to breathe behind him.

Holding Castiel's gaze, benevolent smile still in place, Duma holds his arms to the side - an imitation of Christ's crucifixion that pulls at something in Castiel's chest - and lets himself fall back toward the worn mattress. 

Before he lands, he disappears on silent wings.

*

“You can not tell me that I am the only one who was freaked out about that,” Dean says for what must be the seventh time. Sam rolls his eyes, and Castiel – from his seat in the back of the Impala – frowns.

“Dean, Duma is an angel. There is nothing… freaky about that.”

Dean snorts.

“Yeah," He mumbles bitingly, "Nothing strange _at all_ about creepy little kids with creepy glowing eyes running around. With the key to Hell. Creepy little glowy kids running around with the key to Hell.”

“It is what he is meant to do, Dean. You would begrudge him is Aspect?”

That gets an exasperated sigh, but a contemplative look as well.

“Look, I know you guys like can’t function or whatever without your ‘Aspects’, but all I’m sayin’ is you need to learn how to pick better vessels. We got too many horror flicks about creepy little kids for this kind of bullshit.”

Castiel sighs deeply, and Sam sends him a furtive and apologetic look.

“It is not… bullshit, Dean. If Raziel is correct, then Duma has been in that vessel for at least 1700 human years.”

Sam looks intrigued at that, but Dean scoffs, “Yeah, which means he’s probably responsible for all those horror flicks.”

*

*

When Castiel calls on Duma, it is not the Angel of Silence who appears.

Instead, two beings – Castiel cannot determine their gender, faces smooth and bodies slender and tapering, ornamented in dark leather and dangling jewelry. The instant they arrive, Castiel is filled with a deep sense of dreadful knowing. They are the same height, and their faces are both different and the same. One has black hair, dark eyes glittering and the strong features of the Mongols . The other has hay-coloured hair, and brilliant blue eyes framing a Nordic face. They both have straight and pointed noses, and they are the exact same height. Their hair is braided together between them, alternating locks of light and dark. They stand close together, as though they are rather one being burdened by two separately existing bodies.

In fact, that is exactly what it is.

It’s Belial.

 _ **Angel**_ , they purr contently, flashing him dual smiles, _**You Remember Us. This Is Pleasing.**_

“Who the fuck is that?” Dean snarks, and Castiel barely stops himself from jumping. He’d forgotten that the Winchesters were even there.

“Belial,” he manages, and Belial’s Right – the dark one – grins at him, “A demon.”

Dean tenses, and Castiel restrains the man’s arm before he can make an attempt for the Colt.

“What the hell, Cas-”

“No. If he wanted us dead, we would already be in Hell. Belial is an archdemon,” Castiel rebukes, still holding gazes with Belial, sliding his eyes from the Left to the Right regularly. The Right keeps its eyes on Castiel, but the Left is gazing intently at Sam, who stares back worriedly, “He is far more powerful than I could ever hope to overcome in battle.”

 _ **Angel, Angel, Angel**_ , Belial scolds gleefully, _**You Never Told Us You Had The Boy King As Well.**_

“They are under my protection,” Castiel says firmly, for all the good it will do. If Belial has any inclination to take either or both of the Winchesters, there would be little he could do to stop it.

Sam surprises them both by speaking up, “Where’s Duma?”

The cold pit of dread comes back tenfold, and Castiel immediately steps in front of Sam and Dean to shield them from Belial. There is only one explanation for Duma’s absence.

“What have you done?”

The Left smiles, and both of them glide forward until they stand before him, close enough to share body heat.

“ **We Have Done Nothing, Dear Angel,** ” The Right says, voice deep and heady, and Castiel can feel Dean and Sam flinching at the sound of that voice, not meant for human ears. It has yet to stop smiling at him, as though the entire ordeal is one great, big joke.

“ **Your Precious Lord Brother Has Returned To The Domain Of The Angels,** ” The Left coos, bringing a pale hand up to Castiel’s face and cupping it lightly, “ **He Still Lives, Silent**.” 

Castiel frowns, and turns his head the barest of inches, the slightest of rejections. The Left smiles coolly, its eyes half-mast. The Right’s grin turns particularly fierce.

“You have the Key, then,” Castiel says. It isn’t a question, and Belial’s smile only grows.

“ **So Confident** ,” The Right murmurs appreciatively, “ **You Could Stand For A Little… _Uncertainty_ , Angel.**”

And then they both shove an arm through Castiel’s chest.

He’s not even aware of losing consciousness.

*


End file.
